Hitchhikers (Wolf Point #1)

-12-

My first thought is, I'm still handcuffed to the bed.

My second thought is, I'm not hungry anymore.

It's hard not to open my eyes with all the sunlight streaming in. Gauzy white curtains cover the windows, allowing only a vague picture of the parking lot.

The van is still parked out front.

It looks to be noon or later from the direct shadows beneath the cars.

My uncuffed arm is in front of my face. It's cold. No sleeve. I don't have on a shirt anymore. My right arm is cold too, colder, dangling from the handcuff that is attached to the bedpost and serving as a pillow.

My feet are cold but my waist isn't. A sharp breath and I see it. The arm encircling my waist. A hairy arm, wearing a cheap watch.

With that breath I am suddenly aware of the warmth at my back.

Am I wearing pants? I move one of my legs and see that I am not.

I can't breathe. Where's the blood? Why am I naked?

The world tilts as I roll off the edge of the bed and stand as far away from the mattress as I can with my arm still attached to the bedpost.

And heave a sigh of relief.

There's the blood.

* * *

I shouldn't be so relieved. This is a big problem. BIG problem. I'm handcuffed to a crime scene.

First things first. Get my hand back.

I try pulling it out, but the cuff is tight. These are no kinky handcuffs. Stainless steel. Maybe even police issue.

There must be a key here somewhere. I lean over the body of Paul, a piece of it, anyway, and feel in his pockets with my fingers. Nothing. Roll him over and try the other pocket. Nothing.

His suitcase is on the floor at the foot of the bed, open. He took the cuffs from that suitcase; it would stand to reason that the key would be in there. But I can't reach it. My fingers barely reach the end of the mattress.

I stretch and stretch. The cuffs are rubbing the skin of my wrist raw.

Then I see the ring of keys on the nightstand on the other side of the bed.

I scramble right over Paul, sliding through the blood, and snatch them up. A handcuff key would be small, silver – there it is!

Freedom!

I shouldn't be so relieved, but I am. Backed up against the tacky motel wallpaper, my eyes darting from the splatter on the walls, the leg up on the radiator with the sock and shoe still on, the open suitcase –

Lights glints off of the sharp, shiny objects in there.

One step closer, curiosity, the instruments neatly tucked into pockets on the lid, a box of gloves, a large plastic sheet. A lump forms in my throat.

Paul wasn't just any pervert.

My mind refuses to focus. I'm frantically searching for my clothes, my shoes, then forget about it, rushing into the bathroom running the shower with an itch to be clean, to scrub this all away. The bathroom is clean. No sign of blood here, the toilet paper folded just so, the little packets of soap and bottles of 2-in-1 shampoo/conditioner still neatly placed by the faucets, towels white and fluffy.

I stay under the hot stream of water so long the bathroom is enveloped by a thick fog. I look myself over: a few new bruises, and the chafing on my wrist, but everything else intact. Paul never got a chance to use his torture devices on me.

Once I'm done and toweled off I feel more together. Take a deep breath. Everything will be okay. Paul himself told me that.

Open the door and again look upon the chaos.

First, I need clothes.

I spy my shirt, pants and underwear half under the bed. Paul must have cut them off of me, although they look torn to shreds rather than cut. They were almost shreds anyway. There's another bag, which Paul must have gotten out of his truck... after... I paw through it, find some jeans, which are too big, and a belt to keep them on. A white t-shirt that's big, too, and a gray hooded sweatshirt with sleeves I roll up.

I don't touch his underwear. I'll find some someplace else.

My shoes and socks are on the other side of the bed, near the window. I lean against a bare spot of wall to pull them on. I want a coat, but it looks warm enough out for now.

Next, see if Paul the Serial Rapist Killer had any money.

His wallet's on the nightstand next to where his keys were. I'm lucky he was what he was: lots of cash, no credit cards. His driver's license was issued in Washington State and says his name was Gary Lafayette. I take the cash and leave the wallet.

I consider taking his keys and driving off in the van, but since I've never driven a vehicle before I think this would be a bad idea. Not to mention the likelihood of getting pulled over. If Paul/Gary hasn't already been put on the police wanted list, the night clerk might have the license plate number or description handy when the motel people discover that one of their rooms got a blood bath.

On my way to the door to leave, a black Polaroid camera half hidden under the bed catches my eyes.

I pull it out, and with it find a stack of photographs.

The first few I look at are obviously from some other scene, boys cuffed to the bed looking at the cameras with scared eyes and gagged mouths, or unconscious. I barely recognize myself among these, ribs countable and arms like thin sticks, eyes open and glazed over and bugging out.

With trembling hands I slide this photo out of the way and look at the next.

It's blurry and I can barely tell what I'm looking at. But it's not a boy. Maybe the perv's dog or something. I nearly collapse in relief but remember the blood puddles on the rug and keep myself up with shaking legs. I tuck the photos in the front pocket of the sweatshirt and leave the room.

It's important to keep out of sight. I hide behind the van, peeking through the windows to the office. Then I walk back to the end of the motel, around room 8 which is likely unoccupied judging from the lack of cars in the parking lot. I crouch lower than the windows along this back wall and creep around the L-shaped building, praying no one will come out of the back doors.

And I'm back on the road.